Page 21 of Tinsel & Timber
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “First thing tomorrow,” I say, my voice still rough as I adjust my pants, and try to ignore the sticky mess we’ve made. “We’re doing this right.”
Color blooms across her cheeks. “You’re planning ahead?”
“I’m being responsible,” I say, then add, lower, “and very, very motivated.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Good. Because I don’t think I can pretend not to want you again.”
I brush my thumb over her lower lip, feeling the imprint of my kisses there. “You don’t have to pretend.”
For a while, we just stand there in the entryway, my heartbeat hammering hard enough that I’m sure she can feel it.
She exhales, the sound fragile but content. “You know what’s crazy?”
“What?”
“I didn’t plan any of this. I came here to rebuild a house, not…whatever this is.”
“Same,” I admit. “Well, except the house part.”
That earns a quiet laugh from her.. It’s soft and tired and real, the kind of laugh that makes my chest ache in a good way.
“I don’t usually do this,” she says after a moment. “I don’t…get attached.”
The confession hits somewhere deep. “Maybe that’s the problem,” I say gently. “We both showed up here trying not to.”
Her eyes meet mine then, searching. And for the first time since she arrived in town, I see past the bravado—the woman who’s been running from something she can’t quite name. I recognize it because it looks a lot like me.
“Are you always this intense?” she asks, a small, teasing smile ghosting over her lips.
“Only when I’m trying not to kiss someone again.”
Her smile widens, softens. “I should send you home before you forget the whole ‘responsible’ part of your plan.”
I nod, but I don’t step back yet. “Probably smart.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t seem to be moving.”
“Working on it,” I murmur, brushing a last kiss against her temple before I finally force myself to step away.
The space between us feels wrong immediately. Colder. Quieter.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, trying to look casual, but her flushed cheeks give her away. “I’ll, um… see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say, pausing in the doorway. “Tomorrow.”
I should go. I should absolutely go.
Instead, I linger one last second, looking back at her standing there in that old house—lips still pink from mykisses, the soft glow of the sunlight shining in through the window pane painting her in gold.
For a man who’s spent years clinging to the past, I’ve never wanted the future so badly.
Outside, the air is sharp with cold. I take a long breath and let it burn my lungs clean.
I start the engine, headlights sweeping across the front of the house, catching the faint glimmer of the mistletoe hanging on the porch. And damn it if I don’t smile.
Because somehow, in this town full of history, I’ve gone and found something I never meant to—something that feels a lot like hope and new beginnings.
The drive back to Hobson’s Landing, and the tiny house I’ve been renting since I movedhome,is quiet. Too quiet.
